


my bones have found a place

by 0ujo (orphan_account)



Series: fists over flowers [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Coming In Pants, Enemies to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn, mild violence, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:59:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/0ujo
Summary: Minho already knew that being the star of the ring was never permanent, but he just hopes that the new kid learns a lot quicker than he did.





	my bones have found a place

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to take a break from my wip to write smut, but it got overshadowed by my need for underground boxer au, but that ALSO got buried under fluff so now theres no point of this fic

Located in the heart of Seoul’s alternative scene, District 9 is a host to gigs during the week and club nights on the weekend. Minho doesn’t spend as much time there compared to their boxing ring way underground of that building. The club scene was just a front for it after all.

It’s been two weeks since his last fight, and while he should rest for a little longer since some of his bruises are still sore to the touch, Minho is in desperate need for some cash to pay rent. Shouldering past the sweating bodies and shrugging out of his jacket, Minho began to stretch out all of his limbs before eyeing up the other boy in the ring. He was standing right across from him, ripped arms poking out of his muscle tee that are enough to make Minho think it’s probably to compensate for his lack of speed. With a growing crowd around them and the knowledge that Chan, lost in the sea of faces, was probably biting his nails completely off had Minho smiling out of amusement.

The length of a fight depends completely on the fighters. There were those who liked to fight until one was left unconscious; hard fighters who broke noses and cheek bones, used their teeth when their knuckles had collapsed into uselessness. Minho had been like that at first, fueling off of that pure adrenaline rush. The thrill, the experience, it all got to him just the same as it did to everyone else.

But now? Now Minho’s just here for the money, so it was enough for him when the other person simply tapped out.

There was a dull throb above his left eye, a sharp pain in his ribs, and blood on his tongue—he’d bitten it when his head hit the concrete. Reflexes a little off, Minho reached out and took the other boy’s ankle to tear him to the ground. But it wasn’t a scuffle people were watching for, but a real fight. So: back on his feet just a few seconds after the boy fell to the floor, Minho had grabbed him by his armpits to effortlessly drag him towards the corner of the ring before he bashes his fist into the boy’s face repeatedly.

Somewhere—though far away, when the lights were on and a fight in progress, everything fell away like a poorly remembered dream—Minho felt, rather than heard, everything around him. The wet debris on the unclean floor latching on beneath his feet, the desperate squirms from the body under him like a fish out of water, and the sweaty scalp on his palm was all it takes for the creeping uneasiness in his stomach to grow wildly, the urge to throw up right then and there all too tempting.

———

It ended with a spark of color, disorienting in its arrival. Minho, staggering, unable to find his footing. The other boy had elbowed him in the face, blood on his arm, but not his own; and Minho, falling, falling, reaching for something and feeling a hand touch his own, then feeling the wet pavement against his busted face.

———

His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see—not really. A cluster of colors, blurred images, and a room tipped on its side. Minho wonders how long he's been sitting like this, with his back hunched over like he always did. The rough, calloused, familiar hands on his face cleaning his wounds break him out of his daze.

“You alive?”

Minho can only respond with a shrug of his shoulders before he realizes it hurts too much and just drops them altogether.

“You fucked him up,” Chan says, and he must have been talking to the other boy that was in the ring with Minho earlier.

“Sorry,” the boy responds.

Minho, punch drunk and half asleep,  slurred, “You’re—you’re apologizing?” He tries to laugh, but wheezes instead, “Bastard.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Chan asked, “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No, I—” Minho leaned his head back to whatever wall he was pressed against and let Chan caress his headache away.

Minho faintly registers his legs dragging against the floor somewhere until he gets enough of a stagger going to contribute. He was at the bar when reality flooded back into him sometime later, recognition and memory intact.

“Feel alright?” The other boy asked him. His right eye was swollen shut; bottom lip split in half with blood down to his chin. It looked like he’d tried to clean his face, but stopped midway; probably the pain of touching fresh wounds had been too much.

The concern in his voice and how easily he seems to bruise just screamed ‘newbie,’ and Minho doesn’t want to think about what made the younger looking boy get involved with this kind of stuff.

“Fine,” Minho replied, though he felt anything but. “How much did I make?”

“Enough for rent.” Chan flashed a wad of bills thick as his wrist. “And probably enough to rest for a good month.”

“Take half of it then,” Minho responded, and took the cash out of Chan’s hands before splitting it, not really bothering to count the money, “I don’t need a month to rest.”

“Minho,” Chan warns, knowing full well that Minho’s already been pushing it lately, “You didn’t rest enough for this fight either and your posture was shit tonight.”

“And I’ll makes sure to fix that next time,” Minho says nonchalantly. “Take it, my roommates paying a little extra since he owes me anyways.”

Chan presses his lips together as he pockets the money knowing that it’s pointless to continue this argument. He then turns to the boy, “Pinch your nose, right here—” and demonstrated on his own face. “So the bleeding ‘ll stop.”

Sat with a fluffy, black jacket falling from his shoulders and hair in his eyes, he stared up at Chan with a child-like innocence that made Minho’s hands tremble. The boy brings his hand up but doesn’t do so much as graze his nose with his fingertips, probably due to the soreness.

“Pinch your nose,” Chan insists. Minho raises himself off the bar stool as he gets ready to leave, Chan following behind him a few seconds after. “And don’t put ice on it. It’ll swell.’

———

Minho’s face had healed considerably over the next few weeks; bruises faded to a dark brown, but his swelled lips are still throbbing. So when Minho wanders from a street corner into Hyunjin’s small flower shop, he isn’t fazed by the attention of the several customers’ eyes settled on him.

He _is_ startled at the way Hyunjin dramatically runs over to him, though. “Minho!”

Minho sighs. Here it comes.

“Jesus, you got fucked up, was it Woojin again? I knew the guy had it out for you—” Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate to frantically look over the bruises on Minho’s face with his hands.

“Ow,” Minho grabs Hyunjin’s wrist when his fingers press onto his lips a little too hard. “Yeah, I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking.”

Hyunjin was always worked up whenever he saw Minho whether his face was beaten to a pulp or not. Minho’s surprised that the younger hadn’t reminded him that the spot for cashier was still open for him like he usually does within the first few minutes of every conversation. When he looks over Hyunjin’s shoulder, he can see a customer awkwardly waiting in front of the counter, and so Minho nudges the younger’s shoulder to that direction.

“Oh,” Hyunjin’s eyes widen comically, “Sorry about that, I’ll be right there!”

Minho can only stare at Hyunjin’s retreating figure and side eyes the customers that still haven’t looked away from him. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. But instead of leaving, his hunched figure retreats to the back room where he could hide from the stares, Chan did tell him to meet him here after all. It takes half an hour for Hyunjin’s obnoxious nagging to ring throughout the shop again, an indicator that Chan just arrived. Minho pours a cup of coffee and leaves it on the counter before adding a concerning amount of sugar and milk to his own.

Chan enters silently, taking a seat after he grabbed the coffee mug, “Thanks.”

Minho just hummed in response, waiting. He knows it’ll take a while for Chan to say why he wanted to meet up, but maybe it won’t take as long as usual considering he sounded unusually tense over their phone call. Minho takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces, Hyunjin should really buy more sugar.

“Changbin—” Chan finally starts. “Changbin called me.”

Minho makes his way to the small table,  making himself as comfortable as he can be on the cheap lawn chair. “Who?”

“The boy from your last fight. I gave him my number that day and he just called me this morning,” at this point, Chan’s leg is shaking profusely. “Said he wants me to train him.”

Minho raises a brow, “Are you going to?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t know if I should. I mean you’ve seen the guy, he doesn’t look like he belongs there.” Chan says.

Minho huffs a laugh into his coffee, but there’s nothing about this that’s really amusing. “Anyone who’s new to the ring looks like that, just give him time.”

“So I shouldn’t train him?”

“I never said that.” Minho says before taking another sip at his coffee.

“But you avoided the suggestion.” Minho’s fingers clench on the cup’s handle before relaxing his hold again, not wanting Chan to notice.

It’s a little too late for that when Chan sighs. “Is there something about this you have a problem with?”

“No,” Minho says. His coffee has gone cold by now, but it doesn’t matter; Minho never really liked coffee anyways. He gets up and dumps the rest of it into the potted plant in the corner of the room, “Train him then, if you care so much.”

He leaves before Chan can say anything else.

———

“I could train you.” Minho’s eyes were too swollen to properly see the figure that spoke to him in the mirror. “You’re a really good fighter.”

Minho spat the blood that pooled right under his tongue into the sink, “Then that means I don’t need a trainer at all, doesn’t it?”

Minho slowly inched down from where he stood before he laid his bare back against the cool tile of the warehouse’s bathroom, muscles strained as he held himself up and let out a cough. A bruise had formed on his left side, right near the kidney. He was lucky that it was only surface level which meant the damage was minimal.

The figure laughed, “You’re good, but that doesn’t mean you’re the best.”

He had almost told the guy to fuck off, that he didn’t want to be the best in a shithole like this. Being better than a crowd of losers doesn’t make you any less of one. But he didn’t, he was kind of glad about it too when the stranger had placed a cold, damp cloth upon his face when it had been burning for the past hour.

“Who are you?” Minho’s voice was hoarse. He swallowed hard and grimaced when he realized some blood got mixed in with the saliva. “What do you want?”

“Name’s Chan,” he said. “And I just want to help you.”

———

 

Minho has a whole 30 minutes to waste before he can get onto the ring. He wanders around the warehouse that hums with noise, idle chatter and grunts of pain with incessant thuds of skin against skin with the occasional gross crack of bone. Men and women, all sweaty and scantily-clad, heave as they suck in much-needed oxygen before starting up again and throwing the next punch. While Minho doesn’t entertain himself with the fights that go around him like he used to, he can’t help but watch one in particular with the boy—Changbin—from last month.

He’s against that new Australian kid that people have been talking about, who’s all but skin and bones yet still packs a mean punch. It’s evident by the cross he delivers that makes Changbin stumbling back. His hits from then on are clean and quick, but they’re not enough to make much of an impact compared to his first. When Changbin finally charges, undoubtedly pissed off after taking several punches, it’s then that Minho sees it.

The kid moves unbelievably fast, throwing punch after punch that his opponent can’t keep up with. Usually, it's the offender that tires out first, but Changbin’s energy in the ring seems limitless. It’s a startling contrast from their first fight and Minho wonders how he’s improved so much in such a little amount of time. It finally takes a crooked punch to the jaw that makes Changbin’s opponent hit the floor with a sickening thud and emits frantic cheers of the crowd.

When Minho watches Changbin bask in the attention, the eerie feeling of déjà vu creeps onto him, made his stomach turn when he realizes why. Changbin was standing in the ring where Minho used to shine, used to relish in the chants of his name while looking down at the opponent groveling near his feet. Minho stepped back from the stifling crowd and opted for the benches to wrap his hands. Minho didn’t have time to dwell on the past, nor some kid’s upcoming future. He just needed to focus on his fight and the money that’s soon to be in his hands.

———

“One-two jab. Uppercut. Jab four. Keep your arms up. One-two jab. Jab eight. Arms, I'm not gonna tell you again.”

It’s been a week since Changbin’s training started. Even though Minho would’ve preferred it to occur in the warehouse’s gym, or literally anywhere else, Chan finds it easier to train him at his own house on the weekends when his overnight jobs were a little more demanding than most days. It’s just a little unfortunate when those are the days Minho has to spend the night when his roommate tends to invite people over and promptly kicks him out.

“Okay, jab four and uppercut.” The room is once again filled with padded gloves smacking against plastic. “Good!”

Minho groans. At least they have the decency to practice in Chan’s room, but it still doesn’t annoy him any less when it wakes him up from his three-hour slumber. Not falling back asleep anytime soon, Minho drags himself off the couch towards the kitchen to heat up some leftovers from yesterday. It’s clear of how out of it Minho is when he doesn’t notice Changbin coming into the living room, or how the front door closes behind Chan when he’s off to another odd job. Minho keeps on staring at the meal spinning in the microwave until Changbin clears his throat, causing him to jolt a bit, eyebrows raised, before his expression slowly resorts back to it’s blank manner.

“What.” Minho’s voice comes out harsh. He hadn’t meant to be, but he doesn’t really put in the effort to come off as less unapproachable either.

“Do you have a problem with me?” Changbin asks, but it’s something in his tone that catches Minho off guard.

At the warehouse, a simple phrase like that is what gets you on the ring without an appointment. But Minho likes to think he’s a bit more rational than most of the people there. Just a bit.

“Kid, I don’t even know you.” Minho responds simply.

“Changbin.” He says. “My name’s Changbin.”

“I know.”

Minho’s glad that the hum of the microwave distracts him from the uneasy silence of the apartment, of course, until Changbin opens his mouth again. “And I don’t think I’m that much younger than you.”

The microwave finally beeps and Minho is quick to grab the hot plate that might’ve given him a first degree burn if he held it any longer. He makes his way to the couch and while Minho wouldn’t normally bother taking the time to respond to that, Changbin’s boldness aggravates him. “Doesn’t matter to me, _kid_. I’ve been in the ring longer than your ass has been, so don’t think that we’re equals.”

“You know, Chan told me something that might be the reason why you don’t like me.” The boy says, and Minho takes a large bite of his food and chews it loudly, pointedly ignoring Changbin. “He told me that a newbie broke your little streak and you’ve been pissy every since.”

Minho scoffs. Ridiculous. “So you and Chan think you’ve got me figured out?”

Changbin shrugs, “Maybe, maybe not, but it would make sense as to why you’re like this around me. Just so you know though, I’m not interested in being the star of the ring, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you if we’re both in there again.” It’s more teasing than threatening when Changbin says it, but it has Minho poking at the inside of his cheek as he side eyes the younger.

“You won’t need to.” It’s childish, Minho knows that, but it does make him suddenly interested in where this goes.

———

 

Changbin comes over to train almost everyday.

Almost, since Chan eventually had to convince him to take at least two days off to rest for every week. Minho hasn’t seen the training himself, but from the noises emitting from Chan’s room, it does sound like he’s gotten a lot faster, if that’s even possible.

When Chan leaves for the day, Changbin still lingers. He mostly spends his time there just to annoy Minho, and paces the apartment aimlessly until Minho reluctantly offers to make them some food. There are times when the two of them just talk about nothing in particular. The concept of them talking to each other without hostility is still foreign, but it’s gone off a lot better than the first time Changbin had initiated it. On the days where Changbin skips the teasing and heads straight into what sounds like a normal conversation, it’s becoming startlingly clear that the boy has become attached.

Maybe Minho has too, but it’s not like he’ll admit that anytime soon. Attachments, especially in the occupation they’re in, are dangerous. Minho’s relationship with Chan is an exception since the older isn’t directly involved with the ring fights, not anymore. Chan stopped fighting after he had to face Minho in the ring, opting for the jobs that sprung around downtown soon after. If Minho were to go against Changbin again at any point, he wants to make sure he doesn’t end up like that. Fighting is all he has, the only thing he’s good at.

It’s a couple of days until Changbin has his next fight, so Minho will wait until then to cut off the familiarity between the both of them.

———

After six consecutive wins, Changbin makes a name for himself.

Minho sometimes hears the people talk about him amongst the crowds. Changbin walks around the underground a little taller, cockier, as though the ground he walks upon is a lot steadier than it was previously. Minho knows it won't be long before he's knocked back down and Minho isn’t sure how Changbin’s going to take it.

 

———

It isn’t until his eighth fight that Changbin ends up eating shit.

The fight was a quick one, both sides landing an equal amount of hits but not enough to have them tired out. Changbin at one point had the upper hand though, the blows his opponent receives on his stomach knocks him off balance, his posture and the power in his hits taking a toll. It looked like the fight had once again belonged to Changbin.

So it comes as a surprise when all his opponent does is give a swift kick at Changbin’s knee to have him stumbling down, tapping out almost immediately afterwards.

The crowd cheers like they always do, but it’s not of Changbin’s name anymore. Minho moves through the web of bodies and enters the ring, ignoring the whistles and the mocking hoots once he lifts Changbin up, and instead focuses in on the way he clutches on Minho’s shirt, on his choppy breaths against Minho’s neck. They stumble their way to the bathrooms and once Minho has him sitting on the toilet seat, Minho shoots Chan a text to come pick him up. He turns around to leave until there’s a hand tugging the back of his shirt; Minho doesn’t need words to understand what the boy is silently asking, but he really doesn’t have time for—

“Please,” Changbin wheezes, and it gets even louder as if he just remembered that he can breathe, “please, it’s my leg. The fucker kicked my leg and—”

Minho furrows his brows and upon closer inspection he notices that Changbin’s leg is laying at an odd angle. When he presses the slightest pressure on his knee, Changbin’s whole body jolts. This couldn’t have been just from a single kick.

“How long has your knee been like this?” Minho asks, steel in his voice. Changbin all but shrinks at his tone, but his grip on Minho’s shirt doesn’t loosen. “Well?”

“..It’s been a couple of weeks.” Changbin mutters.

Minho sighs. This isn’t his job. Not at any point in time did Minho take on the responsibility to look out for some kid that Chan took under his wing when he has his own shit to worry about. The shit he has to deal with now in particular involves getting in the ring for his own fight. Nevertheless, Minho knows he can’t just leave; the fact that Changbin can’t even straighten out his leg is all the more concerning. He bites the inside of his cheek before checking his watch. _Five minutes_. Minho can be late by just a few.

He can’t do much about Changbin’s leg, but what Minho can do is clean his wounds. He gently pulls Changbin’s wrist away only to see it fall limp on his side and quickly walks to the sink. Even though the feeling of a wet paper towel against cuts on sore skin is anything but pleasant, it’s better than nothing. It doesn’t take long for Chan to arrive and once he sets foot into the threshold of the bathrooms Minho shoves the paper towels onto his chest.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Chan stands there bewildered for a moment. It catches Minho off guard a little bit too, not knowing how angry he was until now. “Even if you didn’t know about his shit leg, you couldn't tell him at some point to take it easy?”

“Minho, come on let’s just—”

“Save it for tomorrow?” Minho interrupts. His movements have gone sharp and clipped, either from anger or from the rest of the night catching up with him. “I’m not doing this again, Chan. Either remind him properly about the stakes of the ring or let him push it too far and watch it bite you both in the ass.”

The look on Chan’s face is indescribable. Defeated, maybe, but there was something else. It was like he knew what Minho was getting at, knows how much of a fucking hypocrite he is for being so hostile towards Changbin when the younger was a spitting image of what Minho once was. And looking back at the boy still hunched over from where he’s sitting, the once proud teenager looking smaller than he’s ever been, it made Minho sick to his stomach that he’d soon be what Minho is now. Snapping out of his thoughts, Minho tries to push the wave of emotions down, he’ll let the guilt get to him after the fight that was waiting for him beyond the bathroom walls.

He moves past Chan and that’s the last of it.

———

Minho hit the pavement, spat blood onto the concrete and gritted his teeth.

The crowd erupted in shouts, wave their arms hysterically and slapped money into each other's palms. Somewhere in the back a chant had started up, laughing Minho out of the ring and into one of the back rooms where Chan immediately followed him.

"Stupid fucking idiot," Minho growled to himself, the anger had poured off of him faster than the sweat, thicker than the blood smudged around his eye where he clearly missed it with the damp paper towel. Chan just hung back near the door, knowing that if he tried to say anything he'd probably get hit out of frustration. "Stupid motherfucking idiot."

Minho kept muttering and swearing under his breath, paced back and forth across the room, wearing the floor thin. Chan made his way over to where Minho’s bag is slumped lazily against the wall and placed it by his feet. "Get changed."

"Why?" Minho spat, scooping up the bag.

"'Cause you'll kill someone if you stay here, I’ll take you home."

Minho complied and hastily got dressed, tugged his shirt onto his sweat-drenched torso and followed Chan back out into the main room. He received some slaps on the back by the crowd and some curses from others as they moved. Chan shoved him out into the open night air before he could do anything stupid. The alleyway was littered with broken beer bottles and the odd stray crisp packet that was gently blown across the cobbles. The usual smell of the city was ever present. The apartment building looked different in the daylight regardless of how weak the sun’s light was. Aged concrete, discolored with cracks like vines running up the sides; some windows: broken, others: open, and the sounds of the passing subway harsh and headache inducing. Minho had fallen onto the couch inside his apartment, took notes of the aches his body hadn't felt due to his anger for that past hour.

“Feel better now?”

“Yeah.” Minho responded, voice muffled against the cushions. “If I just practiced more I would’ve—”

“Minho,” Chan’s voice came out soft, something Minho would have easily spoken over, but he didn’t. “Just save it for tomorrow, okay? Relax.”

Minho didn’t object. He still felt like shit, nonetheless, all because of some cocky little newcomer that knocked him down from his place—in front of the crowd that once worshipped him especially.

“Fighting isn’t the only thing you’ve got,” Chan whispered, fingers rubbing at Minho's temples and the words replayed in his head for the entirety of that day.

Distantly, Minho had wished Chan had told him sooner because at the time, the words sounded like pity more than anything, a meaningless phrase of reassurance. He wasn’t sure how he would get back up from this.

———

In Minho’s post-fight haze, the drive back to his apartment complex is a blur, and it’s only until the taxi driver all but shouts at Minho that it pulls him out of his trance. Minho slaps a twenty onto the driver’s extended hand before stumbling out and up the stairs on his way to his shared apartment room. Minho’s roommate was undoubtedly sleeping by this time, or might just be out to god knows where, and he was really looking forward to having the apartment to himself so that the familiar silence would finally envelop him.

He realizes he’s not going to get that anytime soon when he sees Changbin waiting by Minho’s front door; shuffling white sneakers, and the same fluffy jacket zipped to his throat. The collar was pulled over his mouth, head down with hair fallen in his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Minho would’ve put more effort to sounding pissed off if he wasn’t already struggling to stay up on his own two feet. “You should be taking care of that knee of yours.”

“It’s fine when I don’t put a lot of weight on it.” Changbin says, but he can’t fool Minho when he’s noticeably uncomfortable standing there. Minho wonders just how long he’s been waiting for him. “I just wanted to talk.”

Minho searches his face for a long moment, lips pulled into a thin line, and finally enters the code onto the keypad next to his door. Minho starts heading in before looking back, and it takes a while for Changbin to realize it’s an invitation to go in. Changbin heads to the couch almost immediately as Minho looks through his room and the kitchen before he comes back with a knee brace in one hand and a bag of ice in the other.

“Leg.” Minho says simply, and Changbin doesn’t hesitate to roll up his pants sleeve up. Changbin winces at the slight pressure, gritting his teeth when Minho finally wraps the rest of the brace on. Minho gently applies the ice on top of his leg. “You’re really something, kid.”

“Could you stop calling me that?” Changbin complains, and it’s enough for Minho to let out a breathy laugh through his nose.

Minho’s still adjusting his brace as he looks up to check for any signs of discomfort, only to stop short when he realizes Changbin has been staring at him. Unsettled wouldn’t be the word to describe how Minho feels about it, maybe a little nervous; cautious about what the younger boy in front of him is thinking about.

“You’re hard to read sometimes.” Changbin says, “You know that?”

“What do you think you’ve read so far?”

“That you don’t actually hate me,” he responds without any hesitation, and it sidetracks Minho for a bit. “But I still don’t know why you get so angry at everything that involves me.”

“It’s because you’re reckless,” kid is on the tip of Minho’s tongue, but he decides he’ll hold back on that. For now.

“It was just my leg.” Changbin says, exasperated.

“That’s broken.”

“Temporarily disabled,” The younger insists.

Minho hums in a way for Changbin to know he’s not at all helping his case. The sky was still pitted black, no signs of impending dawn but it’d come within the next hour or two. The only sources of light came from the street lamps just outside, the curtains filtering the white lights into a warm glow. It makes Changbin’s features look a lot more softer, delicate even. Minho's surprised that the ring hadn't taken this away from the younger just yet.

“I’ll call you a cab.” Minho says, leaving Changbin to slowly put his shoes back on.

They’re both lingering at the doorway, waiting for a pair of headlights to come into view before Minho finally says, “I don’t like how the ring might change you, is all.”

Changbin blinks up at him, like he’s a bit surprised that it’s what the older’s been bothered about. Minho knows he comes off as aloof to most; it’s something you need to work on, Chan had said. Minho hopes this a step forward to that.

“It won’t,” Changbin says, and those two simple words are enough to make Minho believe him. Once the telltale noise of a car comes into the driveway, Changbin turns to Minho, “see you later?”

“See you later,” Minho nods, “Changbin.”

The younger scoffs before he heads down the stairs, but his smile is almost shy.

———

Minho shoots Chan a text later that night, obvious guilt in every word when he realized he was self-projecting back there to which the older responded to lightheartedly. 'What made you realize that fast?' one of Chan's messages read. A lot, Minho thinks, but he doesn't send that to him.

———

It’s become a routine.

Changbin has his fights just an hour or so before Minho’s, yet that doesn’t stop Changbin from waiting until the older’s done so that they both can head to Minho’s place. It’s so that Minho can patch up Changbin before he heads home, and he’s been healing noticeably faster in result. At the end of the day, there’s an unspoken agreement that whenever Minho was done Changbin would head to his own place soon after. But lately he’s been doing certain things just to stay a bit longer. Changbin doesn’t think that Minho notices that he sometimes loosens his bandages just the slightest when he turns around, or claims that he has a non-existent cut somewhere and persists that Minho needs to patch it up.

“I swear it’s somewhere on my cheek.” Changbin would say. “It _burns._ ”

“I don’t see shit Changbin.” Minho would respond. “Quit fucking around before I _make_ you have something to actually complain about.”

But Minho notices it all, and wonders just how long he’s going to keep this stupid game up. But if Minho had a problem with it in the first place, he would’ve called Changbin out on it a while ago. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t.

This time, there’s no games. Changbin sits in complete silence while Minho applies ointment on the bruise sporting on his brow bone. He’s about to finish up until Changbin grabs his wrist. Changbin’s grip isn’t firm, nor is it holding him back. It’s more like he encourages Minho forward, for his hand to cup Changbin’s cheek so he can press his face against it, eyes slowly closing. There’s a feeling in Minho’s gut, for once it’s not unpleasant, but it is something that creates this unsettling concern of what it means. He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned. There’s still not a single word to be exchanged between them, and so, Changbin gets up and walks past him.

The door closing shut echoes within the apartment

———

“You know the kid might have a crush on you,” Chan had said, an amused smile playing at his lips.

Minho startled for a bit before he shot an unimpressed look at him, “Real funny.”

“I’m serious!” Chan walked towards the kitchen with what seemed like a few days old dishes. Minho looked down at them in disgust once Chan had set them down in the sink. “Sometimes he looks at you like you hung the damn moon.”

“He hasn’t,” Minho busied himself by cleaning the dishes, but then he realized last minute that it was a dead giveaway that he was flustered at the information. Minho never washed the dishes.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Chan said before he retreated back into his room.

It didn’t, in fact, help him sleep that night.

———

It was nearing nine in the evening when a fluttering knock came through the door: quickly paced and sounding like birds wings against a hard wind. Minho, who’d been asleep, rolled off the couch with the blanket he’d been curled beneath around his shoulders. Answering the door: there, with his fingers in his mouth, was Changbin.

“Can I spend the night here?” he said quietly. It was hard to tell if he’d slept yet.

If it hadn’t been for the way Minho’s eyes wouldn’t quite open, how his hands—suddenly sweaty—felt like anvils attached to his arms, Minho would have grabbed Changbin by the shoulders and pulled him to his chest. It’s been a month since he’s seen him, no signs of Changbin at the underground venue or at Chan’s place on the weekends.

For now, all he could do was mutter a guttural, “Yeah,” and try to blink the sleep from his eyes.

Apology written all over Changbin’s face, he opened his mouth in order to explained himself, but Minho had already placed a hand on Changbin’s back to bring him in. Minho didn’t really need a reason for Changbin to come over, he didn’t really want one either.

“Do you sleep on the couch or something?” Changbin whispered.

Minho shook his head, realized Changbin couldn’t see him from behind, and so voiced out a, “No. I just couldn’t make it all the way to my room.”

His bed isn't made for two people to share, but Changbin is oddly small enough to fill in the spaces between them. Minho falls in and out of sleep like he always does; there was always that certain amount of pain that jolted him back into consciousness. It wasn’t until Changbin finally lays his head on his chest that the warmth of him and his steady breaths lulls Minho to sleep.

———

The morning light came opulent through the bedroom window and lifted the curtains high and beautiful against the golden light of late autumn morning. Minho is the first to wake up.

Changbin hadn’t moved at all while he slept, face still buried into Minho’s chest. He quickly shuts his eyes the moment Changbin shifts on top of him, and it’s only a couple of minutes after that he slowly pulls away from Minho’s hold. What Minho expects next is to hear the soft padding of feet upon carpet, the soft sniffles Changbin had a habit of doing to resonate through the apartment, and the creak of the front door before it closed. What he doesn’t expect is the light press of Changbin’s lips on his temples, the huff of his breath before he settles back on Minho once more, and the small noise of content when Changbin curls into his side.  

Minho doesn’t expect to fall in love in the early hours of the morning.

———

Minho walks through the apartment on quiet feet, a cup of tea in one hand and a plate filled with breakfast his roommate had left him in the other. He sets it on the nightstand and the noise is enough for Changbin to wake from his slumber.

“Hey,” Minho whispers.

“Hi,” Changbin says back.

It’s oddly domestic for Minho, a scene he never thought he’d be a part of considering what he usually surrounds himself in. But with Changbin tugging his sleeve to urge him back into bed, it feels like he's done this numerous of times.

“I can’t,” Minho says, but it’s futile. Changbin was as stubborn as someone at his age could be.

Once he’s settled in, Minho can feel Changbin’s finger reaching for the line of bruised skin on Minho’s neck and eases it a little further, but it’s still not enough until he’s bending down to fit his closed mouth to the same place. Changbin noses along the arch of his spine and over the hollow where it dives into his skull and is careful not to touch him anywhere else. He keeps his intrusion contained to just this necessity.

Minho sighs quietly. “You have the worst timing.” He looks at the food next to them regretfully knowing it would get cold soon.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve tried,” Changbin says against his skin, it’s not at all what Minho was prepared to hear.

Changbin’s palm slips along Minho’s face and tilts his chin up, eyes searching, and then he leans in until his lips are just shy of Minho’s. “Can I?” He whispers.

It’s the fact that he asks, that he means it, that catches the _yes_ in Minho’s dry throat. It must be all over his face, though, because Changbin’s eyes crinkle into a grin and he closes the gap. Minho has never kissed anyone like this. It’s careful, warm lips moving against his like an exploration of new ground, slightly chapped and real as they find a new angle, try a new pressure. Minho took Changbin’s lower lip between his teeth, nipped lightly. He was melting, hot all over, as Changbin ran his hand along the front of Minho’s chest, palming him through his shirt. He lingered on his stomach, felt what muscle was there, then down to his waist where he dug his thumb into where Minho’s hip met his thigh. He squirmed; feather light touch that tickled, made his toes curl.

“What do you want?” Minho asked quietly, unsure where he should put his hands.

“For you to kiss me.” Minho almost laughs, but he chokes a bit when Changbin pressed trembling fingers to the inside of his own thigh. “Here.”

Minho wasn’t nearly as steady as he’d liked to be; sinking low between Changbin’s legs. His hands shook as he grabbed Changbin’s legs, spread them apart; and with his face tucked into the inside of Changbin’ thigh, right where his fingers had been, Minho kissed him. Changbin took Minho’s hand and placed it high up on his hip, urged Minho’s fingers to curl into his waistband, to pull his shorts down.

“Take them off,” he breathed lightly.

So Minho did.

“Here,” his finger was pressed even closer between his legs, where his thigh met his body and the hem of his underwear had ridden up. Feeble roll of his hips as Minho kissed him there, the bridge of his nose buried against his hip bone.

“Here,” hitch of his breath, he was whining; fingers trailing over the front of his underwear. Minho followed Changbin’s hand wherever it went, mouthed at the places he asked him to touch. At this point, Changbin’s too gone for anymore words so Minho keeps mouthing at his cock, hands coming up to thumb at his head through the fabric.

Changbin’s reaction was immediate: knees vibrating against Minho’s head, hands gripping the sheets. It’s tempting to push the last piece of clothing down, but the thought of Changbin soaking his briefs and burning in embarrassment afterwards was far more appealing. His hand continues to rub against Changbin’s cock as he lowers his head to mouth at his sack, just before he pressed his tongue against the perineum.

“Hyung,” a warning. “Please.”

His voice comes out high and bell-like that makes Minho moan against him, the vibrations causing the rough jolt of his hips, Changbin’s hand finding its way to Minho’s hair. He eventually drags Minho back into another kiss, tongue against his that makes Changbin keen into his mouth.

The kid has a crush on you, Chan’s words ring throughout his mind, and the reminder knocks the wind out of him.

“Shit wait, I’m still wearing—”

The firm pressure against his sack and Minho ducking again just to tongue at his slit stops him from finishing his sentence. “It’s okay.”

“Hyung,” It sounds like he’s sobbing, a little part of Minho is hoping that he actually is, “...that’s embarrassing.”

At this point, Minho starts fisting at his cock, the urge to see him come filling up his mind. He kisses Changbin’s stomach for good measure. “I want you to.”

Changbin came with a jerk, both startling and overwhelming. Minho’s surprised at not only how quick it was, but how much there is when it comes dripping down onto his thighs as Changbin buried his face into the crook of his elbow.

“Sorry,” he groaned miserably, hips still rolling forward as he rode out whatever was left of his orgasm. Minho huffs out a laugh.

“It’s been a long time,” Changbin whined, trying to bury himself further in the sheets but Minho beats him to it. He kissed Changbin’s jaw, his neck, and his chest until he finally calmed down.

Changbin sneaks his hand past Minho’s waistband, only for it come up again with cum coating his fingers. “Oh...you…?”

“Yeah.” Minho says with little to no shame.  

Gently, touching the deep pink of Changbin’s cheeks, he continues, “Do you wanna take a shower with me? Let me clean you up.”

Changbin nods a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He lets Minho take him by the hand, leads him to the bathroom where the lights burned snow white, buzzing in silence like far away bees. Deep, sleepless marks below his eyes standing stark under such light; Changbin looked exhausted. He let Minho take his shirt off, hair ruffled in the back; and as he stood there with an arm draped over his stomach and a hand on the back of his neck, Minho saw he was made up of hard muscle, sharply defined, yet still small beneath Minho’s hands. And once in the shower, he kept Changbin under the water, rinsed his hair, his body; warily touched the bruises and little scars gained from his fights, and mapped them out with careful fingertips.

Not for any special reason, just because he can.

———

It took a couple of months for Changbin to invite Minho to his place. He always said he was embarrassed of it for looking small and shabby, but Minho thought otherwise. Even if there was a tap that probably needed fixing months ago or one too many cracks upon the walls, it was more cozy than Minho’s place could ever be. Or maybe it was just because this was Changbin’s place, which he knew that in time would be more familiar to him; a constant in his life when Minho can't say he's had a lot of.

And it does when Minho comes over whenever he's punch drunk and bleeding after every fight, forgetting that his own place is a lot more closer compared to Changbin’s. But the extra mile is worth it when Changbin caresses his headache away and places soft kisses on his eyelids; it's worth it when Changbin's arms wrap about him a second later, his palms flat against Minho's spine.

His scars and the world forgotten, Minho doesn't acknowledge anything but the way Changbin smiles against his mouth.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> beta read by an irl who doesn't even know much about stray kids but u get what u can take. Also!! will be making a series with this au with the other members (starting with WooChan *^*)
> 
> i dont use twitter as much as i want to but here it [is](https://twitter.com/eggjuun/)


End file.
